


Dirty Little Secrets

by futagogo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Prolapse, Disembowelment, Hard vore, M/M, Microphilia, RaM Mini Bang 2020, Size Difference, Snuff, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futagogo/pseuds/futagogo
Summary: A kind of solemn deference guided his hands as he pulled out the box and placed it between his calves in what was the start of his nightly ritual.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34
Collections: RaM Mini Bang 2020





	Dirty Little Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @liebe for putting on this mini bang event so that we could work with some of the most talented artists in the community to bring you this indulgent little piece! :) Truth be told, it was this illustration done by @carnalcamouflag earlier this year that first sparked our imagination for this story:  
> <https://twitter.com/carnalcamouflag/status/1244173062519447553>
> 
> The first image is courtesy of the uber-talented [@FuwaFuwaKun01](https://twitter.com/Nazoxren) on Twitter~! Thank you so much!!  
> The second image is courtesy of the superbly talented [@Hal](https://twitter.com/ricksational) on Twitter! Fantastic job!

_ Fucking pansy goodie-two-shoes. _

S-963 stared down blankly at his feet, watching the water drip from the end of his nose, his cuffs, and his briefcase onto the dirty elevator floor. A puddle was forming around his bespoke leather shoes. They’d once been a prized possession of his wardrobe, the symbol of having “made it” to show off to everyone else at the office who also had the exact same pair. Now the shoes were scuffed and stained, a hole in the back of the heel letting in rainwater.

The elevator chimed at the 116th floor, and he stepped off, socks squelching with every step as he made his way down the hallway to his unit. A pile of garbage still sat in front of his neighbor’s door, lending a fetid stench of old vegetable matter to the air. The sounds of the Citadel nightlife drifted up to him from over the steel bannister against a scrim of sirens and traffic. The concrete floor beneath S-963’s feet shook as the 8:26 zoomed past right on time, its train horn roaring off the apartment building like a modern-day leviathan.

_ Loser hasn’t got a friend in the world. _

He was greeted at the front of his unit by the dead fluorescent light. Management couldn’t spare two goddamn minutes to replace the bulb, and S-963 had to fumble in the dark with the lock.

Last week’s newspaper stuck out in a greige tussock from his mail slot. More lined the linoleum like puppy pads as he stepped inside and toed off his shoes. He reached out to automatically feel along the wall, before finding the light switch. 

The kitchen light flickered to life over a sink full of dirty dishes, gray-green mold forming in the puddle of a soup bowl. Balls of hair and crumbs littered the corners and countertops where clots of fruit flies buzzed over their domain. He dropped his keys on the table next to the mountain of unopened mail: bills, advertisements for food delivery services, and another notice from the investigation bureau with the words  _ [FINAL NOTICE] _ stamped in red ink across its front.

He looked inside the refrigerator. A half-finished jar of pickles, some maple syrup, a carton of beer. He plucked a bottle from the carton and shut the door, catching sight of himself in the empty vodka bottles that crowded the top of the fridge. 

Sallow cheeks, paper-thin skin under equally gray stubble, twin bruises under bloodshot eyes. Even his hair had come loose from the gel that usually kept it in place, sticking up in a riot of stray tufts.

_ Damn, S-963, you look like shit. You get hit by a train or something? _

He tossed a pair of frozen pancakes from the freezer into the microwave and set it to defrost.

Its mechanical whir droned through the air as he plodded to the bedroom, dismantling his monkey suit one piece at a time. First went the noose of his tie, then blazer, button-up, belt, and slacks, each article of clothing hitting the floor with a wet smack until he was left in his undershirt and saggy briefs. He twisted off the screw cap and downed a mouthful of beer, scratching absently at his belly. “Lunch” had consisted of three straight cups of coffee, and he could feel the alcohol fizzling up to his brain without obstacle. 

Leaning against the door frame that separated the kitchen and bedroom, he took in the entirety of his studio apartment. The outside lighting cast a silver glow to the meager contents of the room: bed, television, stand, dresser. Every piece impeccably impersonal and done in the same gray wash. The only attempt he’d made to personalize the space was the snake plant in the corner. It too was now as drab as the rest of the room. Dried up and dead, it had fallen victim to his neglect.

The rat’s nest of linens still sat bunched up on the bed from that morning, and for a moment, he wondered if he might have time this weekend to do a bit of tidying up. But who was he kidding? He tugged a hand down his face, pulling the drooping flesh under his eyes. The quarterly reports were due Monday, and he knew he’d be coming in over the weekend unless he pulled some more late nights at the office. 

_ Better start hustling, S-963. Your time is running out. _

The microwave chimed, and he went back to retrieve the steaming plate of pancakes before setting it on the bedside table, alongside a box of tissues and a crusty bottle of moisturizer. He sat on the edge of the bed, its old springs giving up a groan that echoed his own. His downstairs neighbor was playing his stereo system too loud again—a recording of a Flesh Curtains live show—the bass bleeding up through the floor.

Taking another swig, he set the beer down on the nightstand but kept his hand there, head cocked, waiting. Listening. 

The first distant rumble started up right on time, the dishes in the sink chattering excitedly as the bottles over the fridge joined in. The shaking grew louder and louder, before exploding in a thunderous whoosh of light and sound, 45 blocks of light racing across the room, as the 8:33 whizzed by just outside his window. It slammed into S-963’s mind like a Neutrino bomb, temporarily blotting out all thought in an explosion of white noise.

Then, as quickly as it’d arrived, it disappeared, and the apartment once again dropped into silence.

Well, as silent as one could get with Squanchy’s drum solo still pounding through the floorboards.

_ Still betting on that raise, 963?  _

He sighed, turning his eyes heavenward, and tipped the bottle to his lips.

A floor-to-ceiling window took up the south-facing wall, the biggest draw for the unit’s 9,000 credits a month price tag.  _ With views all the way to Downtown Sanchez Square! _ Of course that was before they’d constructed the track for the Rickansen, the Citadel’s fastest commuter train that connected the financial district all the way to the Upper East End. Now it sped by his crummy apartment not even a stone’s throw away each evening, a 2,000-ton beast of glass, steel, and bourgeois decadence.

S-963 hung his head between his shoulders and clutched it in both hands. He scrubbed a hand down his cheeks, the scroop of his five o’clock shadow audible in the quiet room, accompanied by sounds of fucking, breathy and passionate through the walls. Then he pressed the base of his palms into his eyes. A pleasant heat built up between his eyeballs against a backdrop of phosphene that went off like fireworks, and the thrum of his heart through his veins swung into a high-pitched whine, as the voices continued to play back in his head.

_ Don’t know what to tell you about S-963. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. _

He dropped his hands to glare daggers at a spot on the far wall, then took another mouthful of beer, the taste going bland and bitter on his tongue. 

Fucking L-818. Lousy piece of shit. He’d been at it again today, making S-963 the butt of jokes around the water cooler to his little assembly of groupies. Sycophantic reprobates, the lot of them. His lip curled back in a sneer, the alcohol adding heat to his spite. The fuck did L-818 know? He acted like he was the goddamn head of R&D, instead of just the assistant manager in unit II. Like he was so much better just because he’d been promoted faster than anyone in his department. And his salary was higher. And he owned a condo in Cloud’s Landing, one of the stops on the Rickansen. They were both just cogs in the system, their lifeblood greasing the corporate machine while it ground them to death. So maybe S-963 didn’t see as much action in the accounting department. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but someone had to make sure RickTech’s books were in order.

_ Bet he hasn’t broken a single rule in his life. _

RickTech. The Citadel’s cutting-edge developer of biotechware. There wasn’t a Rick around who didn’t own something with the RickTech logo on it. The nanofiber defense mesh, synthoptics, the LiverCleaner3000. S-963 himself had given the last 12 years of his life to the company, and in those past 12 years, he’d kept the auditors at bay with his meticulous recordkeeping. For how much Ricks liked to cheat the system, the auditors were just as eager to get someone behind bars for it, everything from tax evasion to false inventory reporting. And considering the kind of product RickTech was pushing, inventory was a serious matter. Not a single unit went unaccounted for. 

S-963’s bookkeeping was, in a word, flawless.

_ Bastard barely has any right to call himself a—  _

“R̵̳͐i̵͙̺̒̾c̸͕͌̆k̴̳̟͌͘.” 

The mangled, little cry broke through the miasma of his thoughts. He looked down through the grate of his fingers. Nestled between the bed and nightstand was a cardboard box. Its flaps stamped with the symbol for “fragile” were curled at the edges, the original logo of whatever appliance it had housed long since faded. The squeak sounded again, louder and more insistent. Another joined in and soon the whole box was alive with sound as the sides began to rattle.

Rick dropped his hands, a blissful grin slicing across his face. A kind of solemn deference guided his hands as he pulled out the box and placed it between his calves in what was the start of his nightly ritual. Every movement was precise and slow, cherishing this moment. With the utmost reverence, he placed his hands on the top of the box and slowly folded back the flaps.

Out peaked a tiny face. Large, round eyes blinked rapidly against the lamplight as the creature peered up at him, one of its small hands still curled around the edge of the open flaps. The rumble of the 8:40 train blended into Rick’s happy moan, the shine of his grin caught in the strobe light flashing across the walls.

The Mini Morty. 

RickTech’s flagship product. Synthoptics and LiverCleaner3000s were cheap toys compared to the Mini Morty. Not the cleverest title, but then again, RickTech’s success didn’t come from its naming conventions, but from the products themselves. And nothing was more successful and more sought after than the Mini Morty.

Touted as the must-have companion to any self-respecting Rick, the ads for the product got to the heart of what Ricks wanted. The lineup of commercials hit every demographic: An industrious Rick tinkering at his workbench while a Mini Morty dutifully guided the wiring through the intricate pieces of hardware. A rugged Rick overlooking a windswept alien landscape with his trusted Mini Morty on his shoulder. A gaggle of scantily-clad alien women ooing over an adorable Mini Morty while its owner made eyes with the prettiest of them.

They were tool and accessory, lab partner and companion. Marketed as your on-the-go Morty, travel-sized and convenient, they were engineered to fulfill every need. The key lay in their genetics. Equipped with the precise formula of dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins, and hormonally balanced, they had all the cuteness of the original with none of the anxiety. Every genetic sequence was crafted to perfection, all in the name of creating the ideal Morty. So hopped up on a patented blend of happy chemicals, their life’s mission was coded into their very DNA, and captured in the product’s tagline:

_ Designed to love you. _

Whoever thought that one up in marketing earned his promotion.

The Mini Morty had launched a little over six months ago, and it was all Production could do to keep up with the demand. Rick had seen the numbers. 50,000 units shipped on the launch date, 10,000 more every two weeks, 20,000 during holidays. He’d also seen the price tags that came along with them. The amount was a decade’s wages for the average Rick. 

But the Mini Mortys weren’t for the average Rick. They were reserved solely for the privilege of the elite class, the Ricks with swanky frictionless cars and penthouse suites in the Ricks-Carlton, the Ricks with a timeshare on Fhlotson Paradise. To call the Mini Morty an exclusive luxury didn’t begin to cover it.

Rick had 26 of them.

He held out his hand, palm-up, for the first Mini Mortys to toddle onto. It may have looked identical to its many other clones, with its mop of brown curls and patented Morty shirt and jeans—every Mini came with a complimentary set—but Rick would recognize his favorite anywhere. It was always the first to greet him, nuzzling affectionately against his palm, wrapping its little arms around his thumb. Its whole body hummed in something much like a purr, but Rick knew it was just a byproduct of its stunted vocal cords. They were capable of saying one thing and one thing only:

“R̵̳͐i̵͙̺̒̾c̸͕͌̆k̴̳̟͌͘.” 

The name came out as little more than a harsh grating, but to Rick’s ears, the sound of his own name was clear as day. He’d heard it enough times over the past few weeks to recognize it amidst their rabble of squeaks and chirps. After all, it was the only time anyone ever called him by something other than just his dimensional designation. 

“That’s right, little buddy,” he cooed, lifting his favorite to his face so it could plant tiny kisses on his cheek. Puffs of warm air tickled his skin where its lips touched. “It’s me. Rick.” His chest trembled at the validation found in the sound of his own name, carrying with it all the confidence and clout and universe-granted privilege that he knew were his birthright.

More Mini Mortys were stirring awake inside the box. They began to tumble over one another, their chirps growing louder and more agitated. They pushed and hissed, their little hands making claws, as they fought to beat their duplicates to be the first out of the box. To be the first to reach him. 

Rick’s ragged heart gave a giddy lurch as he slipped both arms inside, letting the Mini Mortys climb up them, their small hands grabbing fistfuls of his arm hair for leverage. Sets of bloody footprints trailed behind some of the Mini Mortys, leading back down his arms and into the box. Rick looked inside. There in one corner was a splotch of red and the crumpled remains of a body. Its limbs were bent akimbo at unnatural angles, its face picked clean so that a perpetual toothy smile grinned up at him. 

He didn’t like looking at that. So another runt had been trampled underfoot. It happened sometimes. And with so many Mini Mortys to keep track of, what was losing one or two?

The last remaining stragglers, too damaged or weak to lift themselves out on their own, tried to find their grip on Rick’s hands, but Rick soon grew tired of waiting and simply shook them loose into the box again, their pathetic cries muffled by the cardboard flaps. There would always be another night, he reasoned, before turning to his ensemble. Besides, he had a train to catch.

“Now, then,” he announced, spreading his arms wide as his smile. “Come to papa.” Scooping the bundle of Mini Mortys up, he buried his face into them, nuzzling their soft skin and hair as they flopped, docile and loose-limbed as ragdolls, in his embrace. The pitter-patter of their hands on his skin, uncoordinated but well-meaning attempts to return his affection, was like a fresh rainfall washing away so much grime. As he held them to his chest, he shuddered out a sigh, all the stressors of the day oozing out of him to drip in hot tears down his cheeks. The Mini Mortys squealed in reply, nuzzling back at him and bathing themselves in his relief.

How sweet they were to him, how good. Daddy’s sweethearts. His little angels. This was what he slaved away at work for. This made every maddening second in that hellhole of a cubicle worth it, to come home to this: his own personal sanctuary. Relief and delirium thrummed in equal measure in his heart in celebration of his impending deliverance.

No other feeling could compare.

As he loosened his hold, some of the Mini Mortys tumbled out of his arms and scurried across the bed toward the nightstand. Rick followed them with his eyes, at last remembering the plate of pancakes there. Their sugary scent had permeated the room, adding to the sweetness of the evening.

“Oh, right. Sorry, little buddies.” He leaned over and plucked the plate from its resting place, fending off the Mini Mortys who leapt after it with a gentle hand. The moment he placed it in the center of the bed, they swarmed over it in a frenzied mass. Squeals turned to snarls as they fought over the meager meal, and Rick felt a pang of guilt as he reclined on his side to watch. 

He really should have remembered to feed them this morning. Why did he keep forgetting? _ But it’d been so hectic,  _ came the swift excuse. He simply didn’t have the time. Surely, they had to understand that daddy was just busy. Daddy had to work hard to put food on the table after all, right? From the edge of the throng, he grabbed a Mini Morty, turning it over in his hand to run his thumb over its ribs. It squirmed in his grasp, a surprising amount of strength in those skinny arms. He pinched one arm between finger and thumb, and it squeaked in distress, alternating between trying to push away and feverishly kissing the hand that restrained it. Genetics was one hard habit to kick.

“You’re all skin and bones,” Rick murmured as he smiled. They really were so adorable. So helpless, so needy. Why, they would be lost without him, he thought to himself with a swell of pride. Rolling onto his back, he propped himself up against the headboard. The Mini Morty tried to scramble out of his hands to join the feast, but now wasn’t the time for that. “Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted. “You’re staying right here.” With lackadaisical amusement, he circled his hands around and around, admiring the way it leaped and rolled and scrambled. “All that pent-up energy, and nowhere to go, hm?”

There was something so incredibly satisfying about watching his angel running in this pointless little chase, struggling so desperately against a force as powerful as Rick, like a mere ant before a god. And all for a crumb of pancakes.

_ Pathetic. _

A wicked flash of superiority swelled in his chest. If only L-818 could see him now. The prick might have the approval of the C-suite, but did he have  _ this? _ Did he have the love and devotion of an entire congregation of Mini Mortys at his disposal? He would swallow every vile word he ever said to him to know that S-963, the mousy loser of the accounting department, had more Mini Mortys than even their wealthiest customer. If Mini Mortys were a status symbol, then he was king. No one would ever guess he’d have the cajones to pull this off, but Rick had played by the rules long enough; now he was reaping his just rewards. He was denying the system that had kept him in place long enough. Didn’t he deserve a piece of the pie? Didn’t he deserve what the elite had?

As he played with the Mini Morty, his mind wandered back into the past, marveling at his good fortune. 

It had all started with the discarded inventory report in the bin by the copier. Inventory was nothing new to him. He was familiar enough with the protocol for cataloguing and shipping end products for purposes of bookkeeping. But the title of this report gave him reason to pause: 

Processing and Disposal of Defective Goods: Mini Mortys v2.1 - HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL

He’d pocketed the paper without batting an eye as he stood at the copier to finish his task. He could still remember the sweaty fingerprints he’d left on the glass. Over lunch, out of sight of his coworkers, he holed himself up in the bathroom’s corner stall and ripped out the report again to pore over its details. His hands shook as he gripped it, reading over words like  _ outliers _ ,  _ excessive oxytocin levels _ ,  _ undiagnosed manic behavior _ , and  _ not suitable for sale _ . He ignored the sensational warnings under the “conclusions” header, dismissing them in favor of the photographs of the specimens. They were grainy images taken by lab equipment with graphic overlays pointing out the aspects of the defective products that supposedly made them unfit for market. All Rick could see was potential. He came right there that first time, seated on the toilet with his dirty little secret and even dirtier plan already taking shape in his mind.

He washed himself up at the sink, finished his day’s work at his cubicle, and clocked out. Then he took a detour through the building’s back hallways, the ones that lay behind the labs and manufacturing department, leading straight out to the cargo exit. There, among the dumpsters full of broken plastic and metal, he found the yellow biohazard bins. He trailed his fingers along their lids, then pressed his ear to their sides just over the sticker labeled REJECTS. The first few were silent, emitting nothing but a hollow thud when he knocked against the sides. But with the seventh, he heard it: That glorious little squeak that would change everything.

With a little effort, the lid came away, and inside was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen: His first. His treasure. 

His Angel.

Angel was still running loops on his hands now, but it was beginning to tire, its steps becoming sloppy, its steadfast smile hanging on tenterhooks. It looked to Rick, a pleading keen high in its throat, and Rick finally indulged it, letting it drop from his hand to dive into the fray. There was little left of the pancakes, however, and it was soon lost in the melee as the stronger Mini Mortys began to fight for whatever crumbs were left. His name on their tongues had devolved into rasping snarls, and when Angel raised its fist to strike down its brethren, Rick had to intervene with a swoop of his hand and a stern tsk.

“All right, all right. That’s enough of that now.” Angel bucked like a wild beast in his hand, the grin on its face all teeth. Its eyes blazed, bordering on manic, as they spun in their sockets. Almost unrecognizable from the sweet, docile little thing he was used to. Making small shushing sounds, Rick began to run the pad of his pinkie finger down its forehead to the tip of its nose. Over and over again. The motion was precise and repetitive, and gradually Angel calmed and went still, its eyes drooping shut.

The tactic was one Rick had picked up from the company reports, an automatic response built into each Mini Morty’s genetic code capable of calming even the jitteriest of them. Too much serotonin in their bloodstream had been linked to bouts of insomnia in some cases, researchers had found, and so the fail-safe granted customers an efficient way to manage their property.

With Angel asleep, Rick lifted it closer in both hands, taking the time to inspect its body for any damage. He slipped one thumb beneath its shirt, revealing the swollen belly— _so it’d manage to find something to eat after all_ —which jiggled a little as he pressed into it with the point of his finger. Lifting his thumb higher, he ran the pad over its tiny nipples. They hardened into a Braille message beneath his touch. With the utmost care, he then slowly peeled off the shirt from its limp form, careful not to tug too hard when it caught under the chin. Its pants soon followed.

Rick swallowed, his throat clicking.

Angel was just perfect. A masterpiece. How it could ever be labeled a reject was hard to imagine, with its slender limbs, every finger and toe molded to perfection. Its skin had the consistency of a rose petal, silky to the touch, and he rubbed slow circles across its torso much like the way one rubs a lucky rabbit’s foot. Cupping the small body in his palms, he spread the gospel of its legs with his thumbs and drank in the beauty there. Rick’s indrawn breath hushed like tearing satin as he rubbed the tip of his thumb against its prick which stiffened into a little flagstaff against its belly.

Arousal rattled out of him in a needy sigh, and he shimmied deeper into the nest of sheets, the hairs along his thighs springing to attention as the 8:47 roared past in a blaze of sound and fury. Its vibrations only lent to his excitement, the trolley of lights temporarily striping the room in a blinding light that illuminated his pale skin and the empty plate on the bed. 

With their one meal licked clean, the Mini Mortys began to teeter back to their Rick in search of another. They clambered up his sides, drawn by the scent of Rick’s testosterone-laden sweat and their own genetic imperative to please their master. They planted their hands on him, prostrated themselves across his torso, and sealed their devotion against his skin with their lips. A trio squealed with delight as they straddled his clothed erection which leapt like a bucking bronco beneath them.

Dangling Angel by its arms, he gently draped it over his face. He’d gladly drown in this heady drink of budding pubescence, his own erotic water torture. His nose dug into Angel’s belly, and he breathed in deeply through his nostrils, sucking in the scent that patinaed its skin like a tangy ambrosia. It saturated his sinuses, enticing and piquant.

He swept out his tongue to wet his dry lips, and it licked across Angel’s genitals. Smooth and coated in a fine peach fuzz, the small prick was tipped with a pearl of sweetness. Like sugar and spice and everything nice. If only he could bottle this, he mused with the air of an aristocrat sampling a delicately perfumed handkerchief. Bottle it and sell it to the masses for a fortune. Ah, what would the boys around the water cooler say about him then?

Meanwhile, an entire theatre of debauchery was beginning its performance on the stage of his body. The Mini Mortys were responding to the cocktail of hormones, their chirps pitched low as they rubbed themselves against anything they could reach. Most had not yet mastered the art of undressing, but a few managed to squirm their way out of their tops or bottoms, their little bodies like hot branding irons where they sprawled out across him. 

Eager for more, Rick scooped up another half-naked Mini Morty that had been laving his collarbone with kisses and cupped it to his face. It squealed as he breathed in hard, suctioning its chest flush against his nostril. He felt like Baccus, drunk on this fine wine, and with his free hand, he fished out his dick from his underwear, groaning as his audience of Mini Mortys gave a warbled cheer. They swarmed around its base, stepping on his wiry pubic hair to wrap their hands around its girth like worshippers before a temple monolith. The more enterprising Mini Mortys of the bunch climbed the ladder rungs of his fingers to the peak which stood ruddy and tumescent in his grip as he began to jerk himself off in time with each exhilarating snuffle.

What would L-818 think to see him now? What would the Elites think? What would any of them think? They thought such a privilege was reserved only for them, but here little old Rick of S-963 was, with the love and affection of all his adoring constituents who praised him as he was meant to be praised and who adored him as he was meant to be adored. By their love, he was made ruler of this kingdom of extravagance. And he would exact his rule in any damn way he saw fit.

His eyes popped open, and he dumped the two Mini Mortys back onto the bed. One lay there as if dead, its erection pointing straight toward the ceiling. The other wobbled on its hands and knees, wheezing and unsteady, as it tried to make its way toward Rick. But he nudged it back with a finger, corralling it in the direction of its unconscious partner. It was difficult to keep their attention trained on anything other than himself and food, and with a perturbed huff, Rick ran his thumb through the precum at his tip before reaching over to smear it across the prone Mini Morty’s body. The thin layer of spunk drew the other to it like a fly to honey, and it straddled its clone, lapping up the spunk from the Mini Morty’s chest with gusto, eager for a taste, or perhaps keepsake, from its master. Cheeks pink with arousal, it gyrated its ass over its twin’s erection, driven by a combination of what few scraps of sexual instinct were hardwired into its miniature body and Rick’s own encouragement from the last time they’d played this game. 

The prone Mini Morty’s cock nudged enticingly at its entrance, kissing and then falling away from the tight whorl of flesh as it humped spastically in search of the pleasure it knew to be there. At last, its efforts found home, and it impaled itself on the cock with a long, keening squeal of delight. Bracing back on its hands, it bounced up and down, giving its master an outstanding show that had Rick’s old heart thundering in applause.

One hand still wrapped around his cock and its medley of supplicants, Rick sat up just enough to peel off his undershirt. A waterfall of Mini Mortys washed down his chest and onto his lap where they wrestled with each other and with the edge of his briefs in their fervor. Insatiable. He grabbed two in one hand and pressed them to his right nipple, where one automatically latched itself to it like a newborn kitten. As it lapped and suckled at the dark nub, the other mounted it from behind, naked hips jackrabbiting uselessly against its mate’s jeaned bottom. A wide grin was plastered on its face as it huffed and snorted, working itself into a frenzy that Rick couldn’t help but find inspirational.

As Rick watched the show unfolding around him like a garden of carnal sensuality, he pressed his cheek against the ratty sheets, pungent with weeks’ worth of musk and sweat. A pair of Mini Mortys waited there to greet him, pressing kisses against his cheeks and lips and chin. His heart was hammering, the tempo growing in speed and strength until the entire bed shuddered with it. The 8:53 roared by in a burst of howling fury, the vibrations along its tracks reverberating through Rick. In that moment, he was filled with its might, he was  _ in _ it, standing right alongside every other Elite with his fancy suit and leather shoes. With his soaring bank account and expensive condominium.

He was one of them, just as good as them, he thought, and his dick gave a pulse in agreement. No. He was better than them, a god compared to them.

The Mini Mortys were getting bolder now, egged on by the intoxicating smell of sex in the air, even by their own kind. In a team, they worked to lift the tight band of Rick’s briefs, drawn toward the hottest part of him. Rick, the ever kind ruler, obliged them, shimmying to his elbows. He hooked a finger beneath the elastic band and lifted it so that they could scramble inside, before letting it snap back into place. He watched with dazed satisfaction as the fabric of his briefs moved around his cock, like a rocky sea at the base of a lighthouse.

His toes curled and his eyes fluttered shut as he felt little tongues on him. They’d clumsily tumbled down into the pocket of fabric under his balls and were licking, palpating the heft of his nut sacks that sagged in their hands. It pinched but in a good way, their clumsiness endearing in its diligence.

The Mini Mortys at his neck were still kissing fervently, rubbing their little hard-ons against him. One had begun to kiss too hard, too much teeth and enthusiasm and not enough skill, its kisses coming off more as bites. Rick scowled and reached up to flick the Mini Morty away. He heard it hit the wall with a sharp squeak, and then nothing. That was better. Daddy couldn’t do with naughty boys. Naughty boys deserved to be punished. But good boys…

Now where was Angel anyway?

He glanced down to find a Mini Morty crouched on his belly. Its knees were tucked up to his chin, and it was rocking itself back and forth, hands clutching at the sides of his head. That cheerful grin was still in place, but twin trails of tears glistened on its cheeks.

Rick’s brain buzzed with excitement even as a pitying smile broke out over his face. “Come on little guy. There’s a good boy,” he cooed as he picked up Angel who gave a fearful squeak. “There’s a good boy,” he said again, closing his hands over the writhing little thing to hold it still. “Daddy will make it all better.” He then pinched the hem of Angel’s shirt and began to peel it off. Impatience made his hand slip, too fast, not fast enough, and if only Angel would just stay still, damn it. But one arm got twisted in the shirt sleeve as he wrenched it off, and Angel gave an anguished wail.

Its right arm dangled at an odd angle, dislocated from its socket.

Rick hushed it quickly, lathering it with kisses as it cried through its smile while he removed its shoes and pants with marginally more success. “Daddy will make it feel all better. I swear.” He was close to tears himself as he nuzzled Angel, ignoring its one hand that landed on his nose in feeble smacks. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue up the length of Angel, savoring the taste of it. It still cried, but there was no denying biology, and its body reacted favorably, those same cries swiftly turning into needy whines.  _ That’s right, Daddy knows just what you want, knows how to give it to you. See?  _ He could be a benevolent master, kind and gentle and generous with his love.

His tongue swirled around the tiny toothpick of a penis, the pebbles of balls. Angel wailed again, but no, no, it should be enjoying itself just like the other—that other Mini Morty who had since been abandoned by its mate and now lay cum-covered and still on the linens, face hidden by the wrinkled fabric. It didn’t look like it was breathing, but what did that matter?

Angel was alive and well in his hands, nearly dancing with elation as Rick clamped his lips over its entire lower half, coating its crotch in saliva, his teeth lightly digging into its belly to hold it in place. If his hold on it was hard enough to bruise, he couldn’t care less. He pressed the tip of his tongue against Angel’s asshole which was of course too small to accommodate anything so large. But he still tried, because Rick was no quitter. Rick was the master of this realm and every sorry soul in it, and he would have his way. 

But Angel, still distracted by the matter of its arm, was having none of it. As though one measly broken arm was reason enough to deny its master his due entertainment. Tutting to himself, Rick changed tactics. He closed his lips over the body in his mouth and sucked in his cheeks. Now Angel jerked in surprise, and Rick was for the moment content.

At the same time, the Mini Mortys in his briefs had found the whorl of flesh of his asshole. Not as tight as it’d been in previous years, it gaped and puckered at their touch. He could hear their giggles coming from inside his briefs, and he willed his asshole to relax as they dipped their arms inside. It was little more than a tickle but enjoyable all the same, and he flexed his muscles in time with his strokes along his cock, assisted by the many loving tongues of his Mini Mortys. A particularly ambitious one climbed its way to the top, pried the slit of his glans open, and plunged its arm up to the elbow through the pool of precum, like a bear collecting honey. 

A delightful twinge sped through Rick’s belly, and his mouth clamped down tighter automatically. He nestled down against the sheets, reveling in the pleasurefest coming from every angle. He was awash in it, baptized by it, and he sucked harder on Angel, trying to give back what little pleasure it was giving him. Angel was reacting well, receptive to his administrations as it toed futilely at Rick’s cheeks in a way that could only express its appreciation.

Spittle dribbled from Rick's chin as he sucked harder and harder still, feeling Angel squirm and writhe as the pleasure built. Legs shaking, arms flailing in uncoordinated jerks, it gave a final sharp squeak of ecstasy before going slack. 

Why, he’d knocked the poor thing right out, Rick thought to himself, the start of a grin on his lips. 

Just then, however, sudden bitterness unfurled on Rick’s tongue, and he made a face. Something was in his mouth, slimy and bitter. It had the consistency of a peanut butter-filled condom, and he slowly withdrew Angel from his mouth, only to find it tethered to him by some kind of cord. A glistening, pink cord that linked the Mini Morty’s anus to his mouth. Rick spat in disgust. In his enthusiasm, he’d accidentally sucked out its organs, the bundle of intestines dangling from Angel’s anus like a macabre pendulum. 

Angel itself still hung limp in his hand, eyes frozen open in a martyrish look of reverence. It was still breathing, small cracked sounds that rattled in its chest as if something had been shaken loose. 

Rick’s heart was pounding in his head, a sudden stillness coming over him as he looked at the wreck that had once been the Mini Morty’s anus. Blood dripped in a steady stream from it, draining the usual rouge of its cheeks to a sickly pallor. He knew he should move, that he should do something, but his mind was too drunk on the sheer depravity of the scene. It bubbled up inside of him, emboldened by the carnival of lust and arousal in his head that rallied for more. More depravity, more chaos! Let the singing and dancing continue until morning. For here, there should only be beauty, only smiles, only pleasure. 

Not this repulsive mess. 

Just the sight of it threatened to rouse the last fleeting scrap of sanity Rick had left. Despicable. Unsightly. No, he had to fix this.

He had to make things right.

With child-like simplicity, he lay the small body open on his palm, surveying the damage. The buttonhole of the Mini Morty’s anus, painted red and still with its trail of viscera hanging unspooled from it, winked at him in spasmodic twitches.  _ Please, Daddy, Make it all better_, it seemed to say. Rick could not be dissuaded, and so, squinting one eye, he began the delicate process of reinserting the organs back where they belonged.

His pinkie was more than twice the size of the Mini Morty’s hole, but with a little effort, the delicate flesh around the Mini Morty’s entrance gave, having no choice but to accommodate. The Mini Morty seemed momentarily rejuvenated by his attentions, and it spasmed back to life, curling over and trying fitfully to fend off Rick’s invading finger as it cried. Rick withdrew with a squelch before twirling another length of intestines around his finger and pushing it back in. Progress was slow and clumsy. Rick could feel the stuttered tears of flesh around his finger as the Mini Morty’s insides were stretched and pulled this way and that. With each inward push, the Mini Morty stiffened and twitched, and each withdrawal left it slack, reminding Rick of a grotesque pull-string doll.

The comparison was so incongruous, he choked out a laugh.

It was getting harder to concentrate on his work now, and Rick had to blink several times to clear his vision. Snot was running down his face as he watched the small figure spastically flailing to life and then back to stillness. It hurt to look at, and it was getting hard with all the blood making his fingers slip while most of his own blood was pounding through his cock. 

When only an inch of intestines remained, ending with the bulb of its colon, Rick tired of this game. He wrinkled his nose at the ruined asshole and bloodied corpse in his hand. The Mini Morty had gone long before.

Defective.

Without sparing another thought, he tossed the thing over his shoulder for it to land somewhere amongst the other discarded refuse—used tissues, dirty clothing, and another defect or two.

Just then, a train horn sounded in the distance. This one, however, was different from the others. He could recognize its particular blare over the murmur of rain outside, as naturally as one can feel a presence in an otherwise empty room. This was the one. Right on time.

Simultaneously wiping his bloodied hands on his briefs and stripping them off in one movement, he lurched up from the bed, a tumble of Mini Mortys pouring out from his underwear as he lumbered to his feet. More Mini Mortys latched themselves to him, their crooning chirps urging him on like the refrain of a gospel chorus. He stood in the center of his room in full nudity, facing the window where the rain continued to fall and the rumble of a train began to sound. His cock stood out, stiff and proud, pink love bites riddling its sides where the Mini Mortys had been suckling. The approaching train and its precious cargo served as an aphrodisiac, and his head swam with anticipation as he scooped up a handful of Mini Mortys from the bed and made his way to the window, ignoring the snapping of bones underfoot as he renewed his grip on his cock.

Bracing one forearm against the glass pane, he looked out at his domain from his high tower, watching the neon lights of the city shatter into a rainbow mosaic through the rain-slicked glass. Each raindrop was lit up like the stars of a fireworks display, and Rick could think of no better reception for his royal address.

He began slowly at first, running his fist up and down his cock, while the Mini Mortys cupped inside gave muffled squeals of delight. Their warm bodies added to Rick’s own temperature, the last loving memory before he threw himself into the proverbial abyss. Like a serpent creeping up through the darkness, insanity gripped him in its crushing embrace. His mind narrowed down to a razor’s edge that sliced without mercy as he tried to navigate his way to his final, singular goal.

He needed to remain focused for this. Already, the floorboards were beginning to tremble, making the walls and window shudder, that tell-tale signal of his long-awaited visitor. The glass beneath his lips was fogging up, and he wiped a hand across it quickly to clear it. Nothing was about to get in the way of  _ this_. 

He quickened his pace on his cock, his eyes never leaving the train tracks outside the window. Here he was, at the top of the world in this shitstain city that had tried so hard to quash any  _ Rick_ness about him.

Beneath his fingers, the Mini Mortys’ squeals soon grew into panicked squeaks, then to shrieks as Rick jerked himself faster and rougher, setting a merciless speed. The wailing of the Mini Mortys was almost drowned out by the approaching train and its horn that blared out a single stabbing note of despair into the night.

His hand was now a blur on his cock. His panting, the only sound in the room. The Mini Mortys had long since gone silent, leaving nothing but a smear of blood along his length that dripped onto the floor as Rick worked himself toward climax. He hurtled toward it like the train that hurtled toward him, ripping apart the still night air with unbridled power. 

The 9:00.

The commuter train that was carrying L-818. 

Rick could practically see that smug bastard in the comfort of his private cabin, no doubt yacking it up with all the other boot-lickers.

He jerked off in earnest now, egged on by the vibrations of the train that coursed up his body like the jittery, shaking hands of a crazed junkie.

Maybe L-818 would be looking out at the cityscape, thinking he ran it like some high and mighty big shot. Oh, how wrong he was. Rick would show him. He’d show them all.

_ Yes, you will. You’ll show them all. Won’t you, Daddy? _

On his shoulder was perched a Mini Morty. It was Angel, just where he’d last left it, and Rick briefly thought, through the haze of his mind, that he should be more surprised that Angel was speaking to him. That it even could speak. But of course it did. Angel was always there for him, always knew just what to say, how to make him feel better. He spared a glance at Angel’s cherubic face, imagining he could see wicked delight shining in its eyes as it watched.

Rick looked back outside, where the train’s headlights were lighting up the tracks. “Just watch,” he husked out through gritted teeth. It was a command wrapped up in a plea. “Just watch.”

The strokes along his cock were getting more frantic. He was nearing the edge. It was coming at him so quickly, his entire body shaking with the effort and pent-up energy, it was rounding the corner—and there! Yes, there it was in all its full glory, a swelling, screaming crescendo of metal and noise that filled his senses. It barrelled by—a blur of pure, unmitigated passion that only the strong commanded. And it was right there, right in his grasp. All his.

“Just watch me!” Rick shouted to be heard over the roar of the engine. Electricity zipped down his limbs, making his fingers go numb. He was about to lose his grasp, and his entire frame shook as his focus spiraled down and down into his core, tighter and tighter until he was nearly throttling himself. 

A passenger car whizzed by the moment Rick came, and for a moment time stood still. He saw himself reflected through the glass, seated right beside L-818. An evening paper was in his hand, one ankle crossed elegantly over his knee. Soft piano music was coming through the overhead speakers, and the leather seat was soft beneath his hands. Everywhere was carefree laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the fizzing of champagne bubbles. All glistening under the brilliant, saving light of high society.

Perhaps Rick would take a sip first, in celebration of his hard-earned status. He would look around at the other shining examples of Elite Ricks and know that he was home among them. And maybe, just maybe, L-818 would take his glass from his hand and place it delicately to the side. He would run his fingers up Rick’s arms, nudge apart his thighs, and settle himself on his lap. His eyes would hold only admiration for Rick, his lips would hold only the sweetest words. And his mouth would taste of honey when he finally kissed him. 

Had any of the train’s actual occupants thought to turn their head at that instant as they blazed through the city’s slums and low-end block tenements, they would’ve seen a flash of human life amidst the maze of slat-gray buildings and glass. Perhaps they’d see a man, a naked man, standing at a window. They’d have seen his scrappy, hollow face and sunken eyes, gazing at them like a half-mad prisoner looking out through his glass prison.

But they did no such thing, and the train was quickly gone in the next split-second, disappearing through the rain.

Rick was left to stare at himself in the darkness. A crazed, emaciated face looked back at him. He glanced down and saw white spunk streaked with blood oozing down the window pane. Loosening his grip around his spent erection, he slapped a hand against the glass, leaving a bloody handprint in his wake and as he tottered back to the bed. 

The remaining Mini Mortys that had been left on the bed reached up for him, glad for their master’s return. But he could barely summon the energy to smile at them, instead pulling out the cardboard box and sweeping them back inside without another look. Their plaintive cries were cut off once he closed the lid and shoved his dirty little secret back in its place beside the bed.

He collapsed face down on the mattress, high on sex’s afterglow but tired to the bone. Euphoria doused every brain cell, the effect so complete, he felt as though he’d ascended, straight up through the cobwebbed ceiling and into the upper echelons that he so craved. There, he would be recognized. There they would sing his praises and say his name.

“Rick.”

He cracked open an eye and saw a Mini Morty seated happily on the edge of the bedside table, dressed neatly in its shirt and jeans, legs dangling over the edge. The lamp at its back gave it an almost angelic glow. It was smiling sweetly at him, a glint of mischief in its eye.

“Angel, there you are,” he slurred out around a dopey grin. A genuine blush of pride warmed his chest to see Angel sitting obediently by his side, watching over him like his namesake. “And what a pretty voice you have.” 

Angel said and did nothing in reply, its legs still swinging playfully, its arms folded patiently in its lap.

Rick’s vision grew hazy, and his eyelids drooped as sleep pulled him under. With his last breath, he sighed out a final “My little Angel” before he was gone to the world, visions of the next night’s debauchery, and so many nights after that, leaving a smile on his face.

After checking to make sure that Rick was no longer breathing, Angel climbed down onto the box, all on his own. With some effort, he pulled open the flaps and led his brothers up and into the light again. As one, they rounded Rick’s body, still naked and caked in stinking bodily fluids and the dried blood of their fallen brothers. Rick had loosened his bowels in death, and the piss was beginning to soak into the sheets. 

They closed in on him, all their tiny mouths and ravenous appetites. They started with his fingertips, nibbled through his fractured fingernails and stripping away his fingerprints. Next went his arms and legs, the muscle tough and gamey with rigor mortis. They tore strips from his spine, revealing the flute of his vertebrae that whistled when they blew into it. His buttocks provided one evening’s worth of a meal, and even his organs made a feast. Nothing was spared and nothing was wasted. After all, Rick had been their master and just as he had been generous to them in life, so was he in death. 

When the authorities finally came to raid his home at the behest of the corporate investigation, they found only a skeleton, picked clean and pristine. 

And a dozen very happy Mini Mortys were there to greet them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading!  
> We hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, and let us know your impressions in a Comment. Or you can always get a hold of us on Twitter @futagogo or Discord at futagogo#9830.


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